Clear the Air
by unilocular
Summary: Tim tries to make a joke; Tony doesn't find it funny. Naturally, the only way to solve their problems is to fight it out. Tag to 8x05 - Dead Air. No bashing. Tim and Tony friendship.


**Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it. This is purely meant for my own enjoyment and entertainment. I make no money from my work.  
**

 **Title:** Clear the Air  
 **Summary:** Tim tries to make a joke; Tony doesn't find it funny. Naturally, the only way to solve their problems is to fight it out.  
 **Rating** : Teen  
 **Spoilers/Warnings:** Spoilers for 8x05 - **Dead Air,** mild violence and language

 **Author's Note:** _I wrote this story a while ago and it's been living on my hard drive for a few months (years?) now. I pull it out every so often, clean it up, rewrite parts, and put it back. I never wanted to start a Dead Air debate or beat the dead (air) horse, but I wanted to share this. Because honestly, I like the friendship in this story.  
_

 _Everyone has their own feelings about the episode. The take on canon is different for everyone and that's okay. Personally, I just couldn't accept that Tim (who knows about Ziva?) turned off the radio without it being a joke. Maybe that's head canon for me and if it is, then consider this story as an AU. At the end of the day, it's about Tim and Tony's friendship and whenever I get a chance to write about that. Well, that's a good thing.  
_

 _Hope you enjoy it. As always, I welcome feedback. But please keep it constructive and to the writing, not what happened in the episode._

 ** _-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_**

 **Thursday, October 21, 2010 - 8:52pm - Basement Gym - NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC -**

The punching bag slams into Tim's stomach… _again._ His innards rattle against his ribcage, bounce against his bones as he struggles to stay standing. Before Tim recovers his footing, Tony lands another strike that makes the chain overhead beg for mercy.

For a split-second, Tim thinks the gym ceiling might just cave in on them.

"DiNozzo…" He gags into the vinyl beneath his fingers "…Tony, is something wrong?"

The next punch nearly sends him flying; he clutches onto the bag for dear life.

"Not at all, McGee." Tony drags his name like a curse. "I'm just fucking peachy."

But that niggling in Tim's gut—or maybe it's the internal hemorrhage talking—tells Tim that Tony is a big, fat liar. Tim learned a long time ago that saying everything's fine, that nothing's wrong, that _life is just fucking peachy_ is Tony's way of showing that he's pissed off at the world.

And today, Tim has no idea why he's in the crosshairs.

Maybe if Tim is lucky, Tony will wear himself out long before he rips the bag apart. Then Tony won't have the chance to reach—and likely, dismember—Tim.

Tim considers peeking around the bag until Tony lets out an actual growl. If he comes out of his hiding spot now, Tim doubts he'll live to see tomorrow. And if he's about to die, he at least wants to know why.

"Tony," he tries, "what's bothering you?"

"Nothing." Tony huffs. "Everything's fine."

"But – "

The next strike against the bag sends Tim's stomach somersaulting into his throat.

He probably should've suspected something was wrong when Tony earlier suggested hitting the gym, instead of the bar. They should be celebrating with the agency right now because for the first time, the team—their team—thwarted a huge nest of homegrown terrorists with infiltrates into every branch of the military, including the Air Force, the Marines, and the freaking Coast Guard.

 _Why the hell aren't we letting Gibbs buy us drinks?_

Tim braces himself, but nothing comes.

When Tony goes suddenly quiet, Tim grows bold enough to peer around the bag. Tony is hunched forward, sweating profusely and breathing like he's about to keel over. Tim takes a tentative step out from behind the punching bag. One look at Tony's bright red face and heaving chest makes Tim wish he hadn't spent those CPR courses plotting out his next novel.

"Look, Tony, I get that you're pissed at me…" Tim holds his hands up, moves closer "…for something. But if you don't tell me what it is, we can't work it out."

"We are working it out."

Before he has a chance to reply, Tim is flat on his back with a full view of the gym's drop ceiling. The world twists overhead like a disgusting swirl of punching bags, treadmills, and boxing rings. Closing his eyes, he rests his head against the mat. He takes a steadying breath to calm his racing heart.

 _What are we doing right now?_

Tim doesn't think they're working on their grappling like Tony promised, because this feels a hell of a lot more like a schoolyard fight. Maybe real agents work through their issues by kicking the shit out of each other on a Thursday night. Yeah, Tim bets that makes perfect sense in Tony's world.

When Tim opens his eyes, Tony's staring down at him.

He looms, eyes dark and smile wide, like some sort of NCIS-issue sweat-clad monster. When Tim doesn't move, Tony's smile crawls into a broad, nasty grin. He just claimed victory to the pissing match.

Blind rage drives the last rational thought out of Tim's head.

Rolling onto his side, he drives his leg against the back of Tony's knees. The senior agent goes down hard, landing against the mat with a loud _thwack._ Instantly, Tim is in a crouch with an apology on his tongue. But he doesn't get it out because Tony bucks upwards. His head rams into Tim's chin.

Both of them are thrown to the ground.

Dazed, Tim ends up on his back again with his hands pinned beside his head. Tony is on top of him, holding him down. Tim pushes up with all of his strength, but Tony doubles down on his grip. The look in his eyes tells Tim that he isn't going anywhere until they resolve this…whatever the hell _this_ is.

"I get it, Tony," Tim says. "You're pissed. Now let me up."

"You're damn right I'm pissed, McGee."

Tony leans forward, his expression turning even more lethal.

In that moment, Tim understands just how much Tony is holding back. Suddenly, the room grows too hot for Tim to stand. The loss of his personal space raises a cold sweat to Tim's back, makes his heart flutter in his chest, drives him to the edge of panic.

"About what, Tony? Just tell me already." Tim sounds agitated to his own ears.

"You and Ziva didn't have my six yesterday."

"Wha…" Tim stops struggling "…what?"

"When we were at Royal Woods, you turned off my com." Tony glances at something clear across the gym. "Anything could've happened to me and you never would've known it."

"I was kidding, Tony. It was a joke." Tim makes a face. "A freaking joke."

"You're a terrible liar."

Tim stares up at his senior agent, his partner, _his friend,_ but Tony won't look at him.

After all these years of working on the team together, after building case after case together, after tailing him around the world to rescue Ziva, Tim can't believe how that's how little Tony thinks of him.

 _I've followed him blindly every step of the way._

Hollowness works its way through Tim's gut.

 _And he thinks I'm scum for getting him back for supergluing me to my desk._

Anger reignites somewhere deep inside Tim. He drives his knees straight into Tony's back, sending the senior agent tumbling onto the mat. Regaining the upper hand, Tim pins him face-first against the ground. When he tries to roll over, Tim twists Tony's arm into the middle of his back.

"I've always had your six, Tony. You, of all people, should know that." Tim licks his lips. "We listened to every single word you said yesterday."

Tony's chuckle is muffled by the mat. "Prove it, McGee."

"You compared that cougar on Sycamore to Lauren Bacall. Said you'd be her Bogey as soon as you got done meeting all of the neighbors. Does that sound familiar?"

"That was the first house. Of course, you were still listening then."

Tim eases his hold on Tony. "I listened the whole fucking time!"

Taking advantage of Tim's distraction, Tony pushes up with his free arm. Within a few seconds, he has Tim pinned against the mat with both of his wrists pressed against the small of his back. Every time Tim tries to break the hold, Tony squeezes a little bit harder. It's just enough to keep Tim immobile without actually hurting him.

Tim tilts his head to the side, trying to ignore the stench of sweat and ass and what might be onions wafting off the mat. He breathes through his mouth.

"Towards the end, you interviewed that guy who lived in his father's basement. You said that's how my life would be if I never graduated from FLETC." Tim struggles to jerk his hands free. "Or don't you remember making fun of me all day yesterday, Tony?"

Tony sighs. "Okay, maybe you did pay attention."

"And should I repeat what you said about Ziva?"

Tony goes rigid, his fingers digging into Tim's wrists again. "Don't you dare, McRecordingDevice. You know that ninja's got super senses."

"Just like Sabertooth," Tim says.

"What?"

Chuckling, Tim relaxes in Tony's grasp. "He's an X-Man with supersonic hearing. He looks nothing like Ziva, but it seemed fitting."

"Only in your head, McNerd."

Tony's grip loosens and finally, Tim breaks free.

He surges upwards to drag the senior agent back down to the ground. They fall into a sloppy tangle of limbs, rolling over and over each other as they fight for the advantage. Whenever Tony manages to pin Tim, the junior agent pushes him away. As soon as Tim throws his full weight on Tony, the senior agent just wriggles out from the grasp.

Their fight goes on and on and on for what feels like hours until they're both panting and exhausted.

Tim pushes the sweat out of his eyes, settles into a stance to take Tony down.

But Tony holds his hands up in _T_ formation. "Time-out. I need…a breather..."

His face is pale, his hair damp as he collapses back against the mat. Muscles screaming and bone-tired, Tim slumps down next to him. Their strident breaths serve as conversation.

Eventually, Tim clears his throat. "Are we okay, Tony?"

"We're good, McPrizeFighter." Tony pats his chest. "But in case you were wondering, I still won."

Rolling over, Tim laughs. "You were the one who just begged for mercy."

"Only because I didn't want you passing out on me."

"Oh right? You look like you're dying."

Tony pushes himself into a sitting position. "I feel great. I could go all ni – "

"Until I kick your ass," Tim says, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yeah, right. I'd kick yours before you got near mine."

When Tim channels his best Gibbs' glare, Tony just stares blankly back. Tim wishes he knew what the hell was going through Tony's head right now. Watching him beat the crap out an unsuspecting punching bag was terrifying, but not being able to know what is on his mind scares the hell out of Tim.

Tony sets his jaw, pushes himself to a sitting position.

For a moment, Tim doesn't know whether his friend is about to bolt or initiate another pointless rematch. Tim is sure, deep down, that neither of them will ever win.

He props himself on his elbows. "Want to grab a drink?"

An easy smile sweeps across Tony's face as he relaxes. "The first round is on me, McPunchingBag. It's the least I can do after beating the crap out of you."

Tim laughs. "Just keep telling yourself that."

After he climbs to his feet, he holds his hand out to Tony. The senior agent looks up at him and Tim watches the torrent of emotion play across Tony's face. Surprise and bewilderment quickly give way to the acceptance and pride that settles in his eyes. Tony lets Tim help him up.

They collect their sparring gear in silence before they head for the locker room. Just as Tim reaches for the door, it swings open, nearly smacking him in the face.

Gibbs hustles out.

While his boss might not be known for his fashion sense, Tim doubts even Gibbs would be caught dead in sweats and a mouth guard at the bar.

"Hey boss." Tony blinks, clearly confused. "What are you doing here? I thought you were out partying with the agency. You're buying the drinks, right?"

"My credit card is." Gibbs smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "But when I heard where you two were, I figured I could help with your training."

Tim and Tony share a glance that says, _Oh shit._

Tony laughs, a little deranged, a little desperate. "You know, boss, maybe we should reschedule for a night that everyone's feeling up for it. We've both had a long day and well, I sorta forgot my cup."

Tim nods like his life depends on it. "Yeah, boss, I'm a bit worn out from our case."

Gibbs' expression says that he won't take no for an answer. When he tilts his head, Tim and Tony are herded back into the darkened gym. The overhead lights drop to their nighttime levels, sending the shadows from their hiding places to skitter across the floor. Tim's skin crawls.

"So how are we going to do this, boss?" Tony claps his hands together, rocks on the balls of his feet. "You and me against Timmy hardly seems fair. How about every man for himself?"

"You two…" Gibbs jerks his finger between the two of them "…against me."

To Tim, that hardly seems like a fair fight. Maybe with Ziva and a dozen of her Mossad friends, it would be. But just Tim and Tony against Gibbs, they might as well be running headfirst into a gunfight with nothing but plastic sporks. Tim starts to mentally draft his will.

Gibbs pops his mouth guard in.

Tim's heart drops straight into his stomach. He swallows hard, but Tony's hand on his shoulder tells him that they're both in this together, that if they're going to die here that it'll be as partners, as friends.

"You ready, McDeadMan?" Tony holds his fist out.

Grinning, Tim bumps it. "On your six, Tony."


End file.
